


all i know (are sad songs)

by Rallowfluvanz



Series: misc dnf [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: M/M, Minecraft Manhunt, Minecraft but in real life, and dnf is cute, i needed soft, it's really just dnf, kinda angst?, like so briefly, really not tho george is just dramatic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:42:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29818224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rallowfluvanz/pseuds/Rallowfluvanz
Summary: like this, he has to look downwards to meet dream’s eyes. when he does, he feels an overwhelming pressure in the bridge of his nose and behind his eyes. against his will, his lip wobbles and his face scrunches up. there’s so much love in those eyes, how is he meant to be looked at like that and not fall apart?.this is f i c t i o n, written by someone who would rather make shit like this up than actually ask people for hugs and attention. please dear god do not harass these two about dnf, they're awesome content creators who don't deserve having attention taken away from the cool shit they do, idc how much they joke about it. if either of them expresses that they are not comfortable with fics about them, this will be taken down.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: misc dnf [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2191902
Kudos: 29





	all i know (are sad songs)

**Author's Note:**

> i've been listening to 'i took a pill in ibiza' seeb remix on repeat, someone send help.
> 
> it's more effort to keep everything in lowercase than to just let shit auto-cap, but it's about the ~aesthetic~

they don’t get nights like this too often. not as of late, anyway. nights when sapnap and bad are off gathering supplies without him, under the impression that he’s feeling under the weather. he feels mildly guilty, lying to his teammates. to his friends. but, in fairness, he _is_ feeling rather miserable. they just didn’t know that instead of getting some extra sleep or eating some soup, what will help him feel better is to be in the arms of someone they would sooner decapitate than invite into their temporary home.

and so, once sapnap and bad have vanished into the treeline, george is grabbing a small pack and leaving for the mountains just east of where they’ve settled. he learned a while ago that it’s best to keep his good armor with him. not because he would be needing it where he’s going -the idea of needing armor where he’s going is laughable- but because it would be suspicious if his friends returned to find him gone and his armor left behind. it would raise too many questions. most would imply that he would be soon to return (he wouldn’t) or that he had left in haste, maybe even under distress (he is eager to leave, but not because he’s in danger). he brings it with him, but he keeps it off. he won’t be needing it.

he walks, ducking around low branches and following the compass he always keeps hidden from sapnap and bad. it was a risk to have it. a risk that left him incredibly anxious, knowing how quickly things could fall to pieces should they figure out where exactly its needle points. so far, the compass has remained his secret. a secret that made nights like this possible. because as anxious as it made him, it is also the only thing he has that will take him where he needs to go before he is further consumed by the particular loneliness that has been clinging to him with increasing tenacity.

the needle wavers minutely, but not enough to mean that he will be spending the night chasing shadows.

the last time he had ventured out with the compass guiding him, he had returned to their camp hours later with a gnawing ache of _something is missing_ settling deeper into his chest, leaving him fighting back tears that threatened to dissolve his feigned composure. it had been a close call, given how complacent he had grown, how truly content he had been since they had started this hunt. he was able to keep sapnap and bad from realizing how fragile he was feeling after spending his night watching the needle as it exhaustively waved within its case, trying so hard to lead him to a target that didn’t know that it was okay to be still, that didn’t know that george so deeply longed for this chance to feel like he was home and safe.

tonight, the needle is sure, and george knows that he’ll be there soon. the ache that was only amplified by his last attempt is going to be chased away the moment he’s in those arms again. he lets that hope carry him forward, trusts his body to get him up the side of the mountain he’s followed the compass to. he’s focused so intently on his thoughts that he almost misses the opening in front of him, stumbling slightly at the unexpectedly level ground. he looks around the cave entrance, distracted, but gasps as his eyes keep catching on small details that scream: ‘someone has been here’ and a faint, flickering light deeper into the mountain that screams an even louder: ‘someone is still here.’

the closer he gets to the torchlight, the faster his steps become. each time the soles of his boots leave the ground, another chunk of that aching longing loses its hold on him and crumbles away. by the time he rounds the corner into the torchlit area of the cave, he hardly feels that weight anymore. so nearly liberated, he continues into the room. a room he _knows_ isn’t nature-made. there’s a crafting table to his right, and his feet take him right to it so he can run his fingertips along its wooden edge reverently, knowing whose hands built it. he’s missed those hands, missed how secure they made him feel.

then those hands are on him, trailing from his sides and around, one to his chest and the other tracing across his stomach to his hip, before pulling him back against a warm chest. instantly, he reaches up and grasps the hand that has settled just over his heart, while his other hand finds a home over his shoulder, sliding into short hair and staying there. he drops his head back and closes his eyes, allowing himself to finally relax after over two weeks without this. two weeks since he last felt this- the sensation of this body aligned with his and just _breathing_. no heaving breaths, stuttering in fear for the other that they almost didn’t catch, almost didn’t save. no rushed embraces, seconds away from having to go back to being one another’s targets. just this: the innocent brush of lips on his neck, unhurriedly whispering reassurances into his skin. it’s exactly what he’s been needing.

he shudders, overwhelmed. he was not always this… emotional. but ever since he’s known these hands, this chest, this hair, these lips- all he can do is feel. he never wants to go back to how he lived before knowing them.

“dream. dream, you-”

“i’m here. george, i’m here. right here,” and he is. he’s here in the pressure of his fingertips, in the rise and fall of his chest, in the low timbre of his voice, in the warmth he breathes out over george’s hyper-charged skin. he’s here, and right now, george wants to hold him. wants to take all this life dream has, and hold it close to him. wants to gather this life so dear to him, and feel it in his arms, squeeze as tight as he can.

“dream, can i- i need…” he’s not pleased with the way he’s struggling to articulate his needs, but after so many nights like this, dream knows what he means to say.

gently -so gently- those hands are retreating, moving instead to his sides once more before turning him around, putting them chest to chest. then, because dream is and always has been brilliant, those hands slide down to the backs of his thighs and lift him from the stone floor and onto the crafting table behind him. like this, he has to look downwards to meet dream’s eyes. when he does, he feels an overwhelming pressure in the bridge of his nose and behind his eyes. against his will, his lip wobbles and his face scrunches up. there’s so much _love_ in those eyes, how is he meant to be looked at like that and not fall apart?

desperately, he grips the back of dream’s head and pulls him in, cradling him close while his other hand clings to the back of dream’s jacket. strong arms settle in around his back, encompassing him. being held by dream is incredible, but sometimes, if he can’t be the one wrapped around dream, george thinks he might never feel peace. he knows that he isn’t the only one that just wants to feel safe. there is nothing george wouldn’t do to make sure that dream could find that safety in him, in his arms.

“i’ve missed you,” it’s quiet, but george hears it. feels it mumbled into his collarbone. feels it down to his core, because he’s missed dream, too. feels it so strongly, that it pushes out the tears that had been clinging so valiantly to his lashes. he props his chin on top of dream’s head and looks heavenward, unable to do more than exhale shakily, needing to pause and collect himself before turning back down and pressing his lips to dream's forehead, a small ways away from his hairline.

once he’s there, george can’t move away for more than the few moments it takes to press his lips to somewhere else on dream’s face. he cradles the back of his head so carefully, using his hold to turn dream’s head just the tiniest amounts, just enough that he can reach somewhere new, somewhere he’s yet to kiss. he’s desperate but unhurried, following the paths dream’s face creates for him to follow. he trails his lips down, pausing at each heartbeat to press his lips more firmly against dream’s skin, warm and real. he reaches his jaw and readjusts, moving to drop his lips against the corner of a split eyebrow, following the scar down over a fluttering eyelid and to a cheek dusted in light freckles, hardly visible in this darkening room carved out of a mountain… but george knows they’re there. The hands holding onto his shirt grasp the fabric even tighter when he pauses, so he allows himself to fall back into his ministrations. he shifts, kissing the very tip of dream’s nose, moving up and up until finally his lips are settled over the center of his forehead and he stays there, feeling absolutely devastated, raw. his hands find their way to settle on either side of dream’s neck, sliding up until he can hold his face in his hands and swipes a thumb over his flushed skin.

there’s a tiny scar just below dream’s right eye that always makes george want to light the world on fire, always stokes the rage he tries so hard to keep contained in moments like this. he ghosts his thumb along the jagged line of raised and lightened skin and fights off the shame that roars to life in his chest. if he’d just been more careful, if he’d just trusted dream more… if, if, if. he presses his lips to the scar, next to where his thumb still rests, and squeezes his eyes shut. he knows dream feels the tear that hits his cheek.

he rests his forehead against dream’s and breathes. he can feel dream looking at him, eyes flicking rapidly back and forth over george’s face, taking in every detail. always taking in every detail. he never misses a thing, the bastard. but he doesn’t have it in him to keep up with their usual playful bickering. so instead, he sighs. it comes out sounding wet and pathetic.

“i couldn’t find you. i walked for hours, but i never caught up to you,” he hates how vulnerable dream makes him, how easy it is to be vulnerable when he’s with him.

it’s intoxicating.

instead of laughing at him, dream simply hums, understanding. hidden among the bare necessities he always carries with him, dream has a compass just like george’s. he’s been in that place before, too.

“you found me, though,” dream murmurs against his cheek, “maybe not that day, but you found me,” and because dream is, in fact, a bastard, he tacks on a cheeky “be a shit hunter if you couldn’t.”

“shut _up_ , dream. see if i talk about my emotions around you ever again” it’s a bluff, of course... he’s incapable of actually being mad when he has dream in his arms like this, and so instead he laughs. it’s weak, but it’s a laugh. this, too, is easier when he’s with dream.

“sorry, sorry. i’m glad you tell me about what’s going on in that pretty head of yours, please don’t stop,” he knows george is bluffing, there’s no way he doesn’t, and yet he still goes and says this cheesy shit. the small kiss he leaves just below george’s ear is the killing blow and george is unable to do more than drop his forehead to dream’s shoulder. he’s ridiculous. he’s so ridiculous and george is so in love he could burst. he lands a half-hearted smack on dream’s arm, needing an outlet for the weird energy that he's built up from only a single compliment.

“you really are the worst,” he says, but they both know he doesn't mean that. how could he possibly mean that, when the reality is that dream is the best thing in his life?

**Author's Note:**

> might add more at some point, who the fuck knows. i just take adderal and write for 8 hours straight before passing out at 6am and cleaning shit up later if i ever decide to post it. i do enjoy the whole ~mc manhunt personas~ thing, tho.


End file.
